


This Dear, Dear Land

by achray



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: And Romance, British Politics, Gen, M/M, contemporary real-life disasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 09:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19944277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: “Are you saying this – ” Aziraphale gestured at the news, where a large header read, ‘BRITAIN’S NEW P.M.’” – isyour fault?”In which Crowley is responsible for the career of Boris Johnson, and he and Aziraphale have some conversations.





	This Dear, Dear Land

**Author's Note:**

> Everything is terrible, apart from _Good Omens_ , which is delightful. A ficlet with zero purpose other than to cheer myself up. 
> 
> Title and quotes from Richard II, and the famed speech on the state of England:
> 
> 'This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,  
> Dear for her reputation through the world,  
> Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it,  
> Like to a tenement or pelting farm.'

“This is highly distressing,” said Aziraphale, staring at the screen. He was sitting excessively upright on the sofa, even with Crowley’s feet in his lap. Occasionally he petted them absently.

“I told you not to watch the news,” Crowley said, head comfortably on the arm of the sofa. “Switch it off, and we’ll check back in in a decade or so.”

“But that man – really,” said Aziraphale.

“What man?” Crowley heaved himself up a bit, and peered at the TV. “Oh, him. He’s always been a lying floppy-haired fuckwit. Nothing new there.”

Aziraphale turned to look at him. “You _know_ him.”

Crowley shrugged. “Helped him along a bit. Sowing chaos and dissension, you know the drill. Seemed amusing.”

Aziraphale was still looking at him, severely.

“…at the time,” Crowley added.

“Are you saying this – ” Aziraphale gestured at the news, where a large header read, ‘BRITAIN’S NEW P.M.’” – is _your fault_?”

“Now that is unfair,” said Crowley. “I mean. I’m not saying that Hell had no hand in” – he waved said hand, vaguely – “the buses, and the zipwire, and the unfortunate use of Victorian poetry, and, you know. But did I make him Mayor? No. Did I make him the fucking Foreign Secretary? A world of no. Even I have limits. They did this all by themselves, as usual.”

Aziraphale was frowning. It was dispiritingly charming. “We should sort this out,” he said, decisively.

Crowley groaned. “Just switch over to _Love Island_ , angel, and forget about it. It’s hardly an apocalypse.”

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “You may _say_ that. England is, in some ways, my responsibility. And it’s our home now. _Our_ home. And this is our – our patriotic duty. Get in the car. We’re going to London.”

*

“So what’s the plan?” said Crowley. “Is there a plan? I’m just curious.”

“We’ll, umm, we will simply – turn time backwards, very very slightly, and tweak the leadership votes. Everyone can have an extra morning,” said Aziraphale. “There. Easy. Lovely weather for it, too.”

He set a hand on the dashboard casually, though there was really no way to make bracing yourself on the dashboard look genuinely casual. Crowley had to prevent himself, forcibly, from smiling foolishly.

“One,” he said, swerving onto the hard shoulder to undertake an especially annoying lorry, “that whole time-turning stuff is a lot harder than you’re making it sound. Two, if _that’s_ your plan, we could have tried and failed from the sofa. And, three, have you seen the other guy?”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Well, if he isn’t suitable either, then we shall simply – quietly cause an election. Let in a new party. Forces of change, and all that.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “Great idea. Democracy with a slight tweak, brilliant, all for it. Though I do recall you had some rather – uncharitable thoughts – shocking thing, for an angel – about the opposition leader too.”

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “Was he the one at that, what is it, that, er, ‘music festival’? That you made us drop in on?”

“Glastonbury,” said Crowley. “Yep. I said, what a tosser, and _you_ said, and these were your exact words, ‘For once, I couldn’t agree more.’ Then you felt so guilty that we had to go back home for a cup of tea and a bit of a lie-down.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m sure you exaggerate,” he said. “I do recall thinking that he was not, perhaps, leadership material.”

Crowley sniffed. “You and I,” he said, “we’ve seen fucking leadership material. Julius Caesar. Elizabeth I – we _both_ liked her, remember? This lot couldn’t organize a piss-up in a fucking brewery.”

“Must you swear quite so often?” said Aziraphale.

“You’re the one said it was a _fucking_ emergency. I would’ve been quite happy to continue with our pleasant evening but oh no, save the country, dash to London…”

He glanced at Aziraphale’s face, and sighed. “Look, don’t worry, I’m sure the humans with some common sense will, umm, prevail. Ultimately. Since we’re on the way anyway, how about we take the car over to Paris? Nice little apartment above a boulangerie, stay there a year or two or five – ”

“This green and pleasant land,” said Aziraphale, forlornly. “This sceptred isle.”

Crowley frowned. He intensely disliked it when someone made Aziraphale miserable. He especially disliked it, when he was, arguably, that someone.

“How about Ireland annexes England?” he said. “Bit of historical justice, we like that, eh? I could get behind their leader. No, um, puns of any kind intended. I mean, he’s hot. But not my type. Obviously. Too human.”

Aziraphale looked bewildered for a moment, and then his face cleared.

“Oh,” he said. “That one. I do rather like him, too. Though, regretfully, we agreed not to meddle so obviously in the future that anyone _else_ ” –he pointed upward, meaningfully – “might feel the need to take an interest. Eyes on the road,” he added hastily, as the car swerved, narrowly missing a bus.

“Then you’ve got about – half an hour, at this speed, to come up with an alternative,” said Crowley, pressing down harder on the accelerator.

*

Crowley came to a showy stop in front of his apartment. Aziraphale still disliked the apartment, though he was also still too polite to say so outright. If Crowley suggested actually staying the night, they would hopefully perform a U-turn and be on their way back to Sussex, no harm done.

“Stop off here, make our banners before protesting outside No. 10?” he said.

“Oh really,” said Aziraphale.

“I could just kill him,” said Crowley, without much hope, though it was eternally worth trying. 

“We are not in the business of martyrdom.”

“Some things never go out of fashion,” said Crowley. He turned the engine off, pointedly. “For your side, anyway.”

Aziraphale blew out a breath. “We shouldn’t have come, should we. You were right. We mustn’t meddle.”

He looked defeated. If his wings had been visible, they would have been drooping. It made Crowley genuinely want to kill someone, or possibly blow the Houses of Parliament up, only this time do it properly.

“Remember that time I was helping to blow up parliament, and you stopped me?” he said, with nostalgia.

“I’m hardly likely to forget,” said Aziraphale. “You’re correct, of course. We have seen – bumblers – before.” He still sounded sad.

There was a pause. Crowley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. That hadn’t been what he’d been getting at, though it was true that Fawkes had been quite spectacularly useless.

“I’m – ” he made a face “sorry. In as much as this is my fault. Which, to be absolutely clear, it is not.”

There was another pause.

“On reflection,” said Aziraphale, slowly. “One could say that the true act of faith is to assume that essential human goodness will win through and that all will right itself without our interference.”

Crowley could _feel_ him brightening, slightly. It made him shiver. Exactly the point I already made, he thought of saying, and then didn’t say, since essential human goodness was a horrifying concept, which he point-blank refused to accept. Witness: the current world situation. Thank whoever that Aziraphale’s concerns, recently, had been so – parochial. 

“How about we give it a couple of months, and then interfere to our heart’s content?” he said. “It’s an old country. It’s seen a lot of people off. Don’t underestimate it. Her.”

“A couple of weeks,” said Aziraphale. “Not that I mistrust human nature, you understand – ”

“Perish the thought,” said Crowley, sotto voce.

“ – but I don’t want my – my adoptive country to become still more of a laughing stock. You do see?”

“Absolutely,” said Crowley. “The envy of less happier lands, and all that. Now how about we turn round, drive home, maybe come up with a few more concrete plans on the way, and you can choose what we do when we get back, to cheer you up.”

“Oh?” said Aziraphale. “Can I choose anything?” He reached out and traced his fingers over Crowley’s hand, on the wheel. “That would be a rash promise.”

Crowley swallowed. “Anything,” he said. “You know, on second thoughts, the apartment is just upstairs.”

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale. “I suppose we could plot quite effectively in that little sushi place in Soho I like, they’re only open on Wednesdays.”

“Tomorrow is another day,” said Crowley. It wasn’t easy to get the right off-hand tone, since Aziraphale was still gently caressing the top of his hand, almost idly.

“And tonight, you’ll cheer me up,” said Aziraphale.

“To the best of my powers,” said Crowley, with total sincerity.


End file.
